I have scratched out my journey across a mountain of pages and each and every time I’ve filed away a book, I’ve mourned the trees, compassion is not something I lack.

I have been thankful that they took each and every step with me and as each notebook closes I retreat to my back yard to plant another seed.
I’m happy to give back.

The million litres of ink that have been bleed beneath my fingers and have spread to stain my hands as my life raced across the pages has not been spilled in vain if one day the moldy old box is opened and the dust is blown from the covers and a futuristic version of me delights in the find, and hears beyond the echo of the scratching of tortuous proportions to see a life that was fun filled pain.

So much chatter, most of it doesn’t matter, little tidbits float along on a swollen creek that has never actually seen much rain.

Tiny little letters run across a barren land and accidentally collide into one another because they have no coherency while all the Big words sit in their gilded towers and watch, and wait, drinking the finest Port they can find while mocking the chaos below with ridicule and disdain.

Little bits and pieces have been scattered to the wind...
Thrown into the air, as an offering of peace, to the ancient scourge that is the birds.

I guess this would probably make much more sense if I could only just find the right words….

Jan 9 (two thousand and something)